


Ride or Die

by sailaway



Category: Black Panther (2018), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Car Chases, Car Sex, F/M, Partners in Crime
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-17
Updated: 2017-10-17
Packaged: 2019-01-18 16:45:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,184
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12392070
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sailaway/pseuds/sailaway
Summary: You only wish you could afford me, the air about her says; and while the imagery is undeniably appealing, he can't forget he's seen her spitting blood and punching an escape route in a wall with a sub-machine gun.As far as visuals go, he's rather fond of the latter.





	Ride or Die

**Author's Note:**

> I can't believe I did another Klaue fic. I'm hopeless. I'm also not sure about the timeline of what's happening in the Black Panther trailer, so this won't be linear, and I'm playing extremely fast and loose with what little we know of the plot. Just roll with it.

* * *

 

 

Slinky. Shimmering. Jazzy, he supposes it would be called in a fashion magazine. The dress drapes low in front and lower in back, all but painted over her waist and flowing in silver folds to mid-thigh.

“You're distracting,” Klaue growls, tugging on his tie. He isn't prone to wearing ties, period, but he seems to recall this being easier before he was so rudely deprived of his left arm. She slips into his personal space like a cat, straightening the lopsided knot.

“Then they won't see what's really coming.” She covers his hands with her own, rough tattooed flesh and prosthetic alike, sliding them up her thighs to the double pistols concealed under the fabric.

He grins, fingering the cold metal grip.

 

* * *

 

He likes the way men look at her. Not their covetousness – that elicits a white-hot spark of jealousy, though he trusts her implicitly – but how they trivialize her. Oblivious, as they size her up, of what's capable of doing to them.

She's good like that.

Her china-doll eyes only appear innocent and curious as she scans the casino floor, strolling along its perimeter: sugar baby on her first big night out, rather than the rather plain-spoken, unpretentious mercenary she really was. Not that there's anything to stop her embodying both personas.

He likes that, too.

 _You only wish you could afford me,_ the air about her says; and while the imagery is undeniably appealing, he can't forget he's seen her spitting blood and punching an escape route in a wall with a sub-machine gun.

As far as visuals go, he's rather fond of the latter.

The deal goes south. He's been on edge since they walked in, and clearly his instincts were right. As he fights his way out he remains vaguely aware of her location, like a GPS point on his internal map, laying down cover fire for him.

She gets out and to the SUV seconds after he does. Their driver's nowhere to be found, probably off having a smoke, lazy bastard – and she kicks off her heels before sliding in behind the wheel and taking off through the neon streets. Her stare is concentrated and unblinking as she weaves in and out of traffic, white-knuckled. There's a smudge of blood on her temple.

Klaue tongues the inside of his cheek and tugs a lock of her hair. “Let's have some fun, darling.”

As he hangs out the passenger window to fire at their pursuers he can hear her giving in to laughter now, exhilarated, almost manic. Adrenaline does that. His own races through his veins like electricity, wind catching at his clothes, all senses dialed up to 11.

The tires screech and the bumper fishtails as she careens the wrong way down an on-ramp and he throws himself back inside, swinging from the grab handle as she jumps the curb into the shadows under an overpass. As the vehicle skids to a stop she twists the key and they both freeze. Listening; waiting. Even in the darkness he can see the vein jumping in her neck.

She looks so wild and gorgeous with her hair in disarray and her teeth clenched that he seizes her by the jaw and kisses her, hard and messy. She must've gotten a split lip at some point because he can taste the faint tang of blood.

Whoever gave it to her undoubtedly lived to regret it. Or, didn't.

She yanks the parking brake and crawls over to straddle his lap. He groans into her mouth, hand stealing under her bunched up dress to grab her ass and grind her down onto his arousal. He finds her warm folds and strokes, too amped to be gentle; but he knows she likes it that way, thrills to the heady cocktail of pain and pleasure.

It only takes a flick of his fly and a shift of fabric and he's sinking into her ready heat, rewarded by her ragged whimper in his ear and the immediate, needy roll of her hips. He slots thumb and forefinger around that dainty throat, holding her just a little away so he can feel her uneven breath mingling with his, watch her lashes flutter. She clutches his wrist with one hand and the front of his waistcoat with the other, anchoring herself as he thrusts up into her, their rhythms syncing and accelerating.

Sirens wail on the bridge above them – a fresh surge of adrenaline, pulses pounding, muscles tightening as the noise peaks – and blow past without stopping.

The strangled cry she makes when she comes is drowned out, but he already knows its sound by heart.

 

* * *

 

She doesn't know why they're at a museum in the dead of night. Ulysses Klaue is an arms dealer and assassin, not an art thief. At least, as far as she's aware. He has a very diverse skill set. But if she needed to know, he would've filled her in. And if she doesn't need to know, she's not particularly interested.

It's debatable, how much of her general knowledge about her employer is true. He could say the same of her. But she gets regular jobs, and she gets paid, and it's all _with_ him and _for_ him.

That suits her very well.

A perk of driving a hijacked ambulance is that you can park it wherever you like, and where they like is the service entrance of a world heritage museum. It's small and upscale, yet with minimal security. Convenient. They have a new driver this time, one who's instructed essentially on pain of death to remain at the wheel.

In his stolen paramedic's coat Klaue plays it off charmingly for the pair of oblivious rent-a-cops – _we received a call to this address, was that not you? Are you sure everything's alright?_ – and they're dispatched with ease. Impressive, how he can turn on a dime like that. But anyone with sense could see past the false folksy shrug and ingratiating smile to the coiled tension, the watchful intelligence, like the predatory twitch of a rattlesnake's tail. For her, it's riveting.

The display cases' alarms are, relatively, a snap to disable. The museum's thorough organization system, keys snagged from a guard's belt, and Klaue's chronological list of file numbers make it simple to locate the artifacts in question and fit them into padded aluminum briefcases. Quick and quiet and tidy.

The third guard, however, is unexpected. His still-hot fast food bag hits the floor before he does. Klaue whirls around at the muffled gunshot while his accomplice remains in position on the marble floor, smoking pistol up and arm braced on her knee, until she's sure the interruption is staying down.

“Aren't you my lucky charm,” Klaue purrs down at her. When he speaks softly like that his voice drops off almost into a rumble. The quirk of her lips is coy.

He crouches as he snaps the final case shut, and gestures with two fingers. She sheathes the pistol in its holster and turns, angling herself between his knees and flattening one palm on his inner thigh.

At his hip, the walkie-talkie crackles. “Boss, a police cruiser just rolled past,” comes the static warning from the driver. “All clear here, no reason for them to stop, but I'd wrap it up.”

Klaue's blue eyes are bright, fueled by the high of the crime, and she responds with equal ferocity as he dips his head to claim her mouth. She hooks one arm around his shoulders, fingers grazing the familiar talisman of the brand on his neck. When he gets like this it inflames her, too, his violent energy irresistible and contagious; as she seizes his lapels he crushes her to him, his kiss feral and devouring. The scent of gunpowder lingers as an acrid aphrodisiac, a contamination of the gallery's clean, stark elegance.

The walkie-talkie bursts out a staccato string of exclamations, something about an open door in front and the police circling around again.

They break apart and scramble to their feet. On entry she'd snagged a janitorial cart and they load the cases on – “go, go,” he hisses – and race toward through the connected rooms toward the back exit.

Abruptly he skids to a stop, and she digs in her heels to halt the heavy cart's momentum. “What are you doing?”

With no hesitation he smashes a jewelry case with his prosthetic elbow, reaching in with his other hand and plucking a delicate fringed gold necklace from the shards of glass. His eyes flare as he wraps the ancient hammered chain around her palm, pressing a swift, smirking kiss to the back of her hand before tearing out the door.

They sling the cases in the back of the ambulance and tumble in, Klaue shouting “drive!” before the doors are even fully shut. Once they are she falls back onto her elbows, panting. He's leaning against the opposite wall, head tipped back, and once she sits up he pulls her into the spread V of his legs.

“What's this for?” As she tilts her fingers the jewelry catches the fluorescent lights.

“Oh, that?” He huffs out a chuckle, shrugging off the big coat. “Just a little something I picked up on a whim.”

She tsks and settles into his chest, his sturdy arms sliding around her waist and lips brushing the crown of her head.

She traces the patterns of the tattoos, the necklace warming between her skin and his as the ambulance slips discreetly into traffic and away into the night.

 

* * *

 

She's pretty confident engines aren't meant to make that kind of whine. The van rattles and creaks, the motley crew in the back jostled and jolted with so much as a hairline crack in the road. This only bolsters her opinion that this Killmonger individual must be flat broke, one first formed when he supplemented his own team with one of Klaue's. Took the time to deliberately seek her out, even.

Then again, that indicates he has the connections to not just figure out her identity, but to know enough about her to correctly assume that once she learned Klaue was in custody she'd do the extraction for free.

Stingy? Or just savvy? Maybe she'll revise her opinion of him later.

She keeps her weapons factory clean, both for maximum function and the ritual of it: her own private rosary. The magazine is a smooth and familiar comfort under her hand, as is the subtle compression of her body armor. These things initiate a laser focus on her brain; the accouterments a signal. Time to work.

For once she's not the only woman on the crew. It's a rare feeling, but not an unpleasant one. Once upon a time she'd despised how men underestimated her but now she almost likes the stealth of it. Just another tool in her already expansive arsenal.

She's also accustomed to a bit more subtlety, but simply blowing a hole in the wall certainly gets the job done. Though she would've – and had – only used such a tactic as a last resort, in some deep place inside her, she acknowledges that the stakes are high.

Gunfire is gunfire, and to those inside the building, the spatters of assault rifles are uniform and indistinguishable. But when Klaue sees her, he somehow could've sworn he knew it was her all along.

She goes down hard between his knees, getting to work with the bolt cutters on his ankle cuffs.

“Isn't that a pretty sight,” he teases under his breath, blowing up to get the dust out of his face. She doesn't grace that with a reply. He raises his voice to be heard over the spray of bullets. “Who's this crowd, then?”

“Fuck if I know.”

“That's not like you.” He's right, she's usually more prudent.

“Show a little gratitude, hmm?” She taps the cutters on the duct tape around his middle, lifting an expectant brow. They don't have time for this, need to get in and out and away; but she elicits that smug, affectionate curl of his lips, and in response her own licentious tongue pokes just a little between her teeth.

“Do I make you sloppy,” he taunts as they make their escape, striding behind her as he reattaches his arm.

“You wish.”

Since they're last in the van and nobody's paying attention in the chaos, he smacks her ass as she climbs in.

They sit across from each other. His focus is on Killmonger, she knows, his clever brain racing ahead to dissect the situation and the stranger. By the tiny nuances of his expression he seems to be figuring it out and, if she's reading him right (which is almost always) he's rather pleased with the new state of affairs.

This satisfies her. As long as he's good, she's good.

His eyes flick to hers briefly, heavy-lidded. There's a cocky gleam in their depths. The van is cramped, so the touch of his boot toe to hers is discreet. A small thing, but a reconnecting. An acknowledgment. Like a lungful of air after surfacing from water.

For now, it's enough.

 

* * *

 

 


End file.
